Feral Stallion
by The Weaver Atropos
Summary: Dallas Winston was a jockey...and someone seems to have discovered he's not always as cold as he seems...


6.29.03

The Dally we all know and love may be a little out of character, but S.E. Hinton never said Dallas couldn't be gentle.

Feral Stallion

It was a real pity.  Dallas let out a lengthy sigh and inspected the aging horse before him.  He had arthritis, or so he'd heard.  It was hard to imagine that the "Rocket" of the tracks would never run again.  

In the short time that he'd been in the jockeying business, Dally had found it hard not to develop a slight affection for the brazen animal.  It reminded him of himself: free, wild, and never yielding.  At least, not to many people.  

"And now ya're leavin'."

Rocket had to be put down, and although Dally had threatened—gone as close as murder, actually—his antics hadn't resulted in much but a glare and sad shake of the head.  

To be honest, Dally had found the workers at the corrals to be quite greedy and ignorant.  In response to his rants they had pulled out books of profits and lectured him on the consequences of letting an ill-equipped horse race.  And Dally, Dally had scoffed…He didn't understand _why_ a horse had to be put to sleep simply because it couldn't run as fast anymore.  It was ridiculous.  It was _murder_.  Dally shuddered slightly at the thought.  

            While his thoughts ran amok, Dally ran a soothing palm down Rocket's tangled mane, smiling a bit awkwardly.  He was cautious to keep his touch light, however, for he as anyone knew the dangers of irritating a feral horse.  Once again, that odd smile flitted momentarily on his lips.  Rocket was just like him.  He liked to be left alone—not ignored, no—but not pampered either.  

            "Jus' me and you, boy…"

            Chatting idly with the Rocket in a manner unlike him, Dally lazily picked up a nearby brush and began gliding through the horse's wiry hair.  He was so unkempt, Dally realized absently, frowning amidst his work.  Ever since he had been deemed 'unfit' for racing, all maintenance on the Rocket had been terminated and, despite his illness, he had been left to live in the worst of conditions.  

            His stable was always dirty, filled to the brim with filthy hay and water, product of Rocket's own bodily processes.  And although Dally had made a routine of stopping by periodically, there was really only so much he could do.  

            "Sometimes, I bet ya think life ain't really much fun," whistling after that half-hearted observation, Dallas began to patiently untangle Rocket's tousled mane.  He winced when a bur grazed his left thumb, but dismissed it when he wondered how often it had happened to Rocket.

            "Still think you can ride, boy?"  

Dallas bit his lower lip as he pondered at whether or not he should mount Rocket.  The horse had arthritis; and no doubt he couldn't race any longer, but did that mean he couldn't be ridden, either?  The last thing Dally wanted to do was hurt Rocket, but somehow he figured that he needed to be ridden; that Rocket longed for freedom outside the stable fences—outside the farm, hell, even outside stupid Tulsa.  Dally remembered how he had felt like after a week in jail—how he'd felt like after 5 years in jail…but he had no idea how it might feel like to be trapped an entire lifetime, especially when you had been a stallion accustomed to large, unadultered plains and fields with no boundaries.  

Not bothering to saddle him up, and already having made his decision, Dallas gently tapped Rocket's side and prodded him to a steady gait.  The horse neighed feebly at first, testing out each step tentatively before placing its entire weight on it.  Then, when Dally was sure Rocket had had enough, he quickened to a gallop, sending its mane flying wildly against the rippling wind.  

It took a while before the old horse tired out, but sure enough, he did.  When they had made their way back to the stables, Dallas reigned him in tenderly, mindful of his exhaustion, and brushed slender fingertips through the horse's mane once more.  It was hard to believe this was his goodbye.  

"Know what?"  the young boy continued, deciding against his fatigue to remain with Rocket, "I ain't never liked getting' sick."

Indolently, Dallas kicked off his shoes and adjusted his weight against a barrel of hay, positioned so that he was lying only a few feet from Rocket.  "I only been sick once.  And real sick, too.  I was ten.  See, I'd gotten hauled in for I don't know what, and I had gotten real scared.  First time, there.  Never been alone 'til then—always with some group or other.  So, I was so scared, that I made myself sick and—" Dally paused in his story when he realized Rocket was slowly lowering himself to the floor, almost as if he was taking interest in the story.

"It was somethin' with my stomach," Dally resumed, "I ain't know what it was 'bout even now.  But Glory, did it smart!"  

The two-headed teen craned his neck toward the horse.  "Do they hurt, Rocket?"

His inquiry had no response besides the focus of Rocket's chocolate orbs.  

Shrugging, Dally began to hum some new Elvis song he'd heard somewhere, absentmindedly tapping his foot to the beat, when he heard the revving of an engine.  Stiffening, he rose slightly, a side-glance to Rocket's pricked ears evidence the horse had picked up the sound as well.  

Standing as quickly as he could, Dally stumbled against the hay, catching himself only seconds before he fell.  The Rocket neighed stubbornly in response, making Dally's heart beat even faster.  He wasn't even supposed to be there.  Dally had already been warned about visiting Jay's Corrals.  If they ever caught him there, he would most certainly be jailed for at least a week.  

"Shh…" he warned, making his way quietly out of the stall, glancing one final time at his horse.  Then, he turned and exited the stables before breaking into a sudden run, a silent tear making its way down his stubbly cheek.  He'd make sure he'd never end up trapped and tamed like Rocket had…Dallas Winston would _never_ give in to anyone.  He'd sooner die than answer to anyone…


End file.
